


Untitled Impromptu Desk Smut

by flaming_muse



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: April Showers Challenge, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-04-14
Updated: 2005-04-14
Packaged: 2017-10-18 09:49:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/187605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flaming_muse/pseuds/flaming_muse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What it says on the packet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Untitled Impromptu Desk Smut

**Author's Note:**

> pure PWP, written over e-mail for TheBratQueen and JustHuman
> 
> Originally posted to my LJ on April 14, 2005.

It simply wouldn't do to spam your inbox with pr0n.

Especially not of the sort with Wesley gasping Angel's name with nearly every breath, his eyes squeezed shut and a droplet of sweat trickling down his spine as Angel slowly thrusts in him, far too slowly for either of them to come but still enough to drive them both mad. The languid, steady rhythm of near total withdrawal and then sliding in deep has them both clenching their jaws, Angel's hands on Wesley's hips the only thing keeping Wesley from pushing back into him and forcing him to fuck him faster.

"Please. Angel, please," Wesley begs, but Angel is determined not to listen, the only change in his movements the tightening of his hands on Wesley's sharp hip bones.

"You feel so good, Wes," Angel says, slowing down just a bit, concentrating on the way Wesley's body opens around his cock with every thrust. He's hot and slick and so damn perfect Angel could almost worry about his soul staying put. He bends forward, pushing in deeper and pressing Wesley into the desk, so that he can feel the sticky skin of Wesley's back against his chest, his damp dress shirt shoved up to his shoulder blades. Angel's own shirt hangs open, flapping like silk wings with each movement, a remnant of the blow job that began the encounter.

The memory of Wesley on his knees makes Angel's hips speed up for a few thrusts, forcing hoarse moans from Wesley's throat and a desperate arching of his back, but then Angel regains control, standing up straight again and pulling Wesley back into position.

He can feel Wesley trembling, a fine shaking reverberating through Angel's hands and adding another layer of stimulation to his already eager body. The submissive bend of Wesley's back is too beautiful to look at, and Angel closes his eyes for a moment, but the color of that warm skin is burned in his memory, the thought of the salt of his sweat and the bright flush of his blood beneath the surface making his mouth water.

He pushes in harder, deeper, and Wesley grunts his approval, swaying with each thrust. Angel always likes making him lose the ability to speak; as much as he could get lost in Wesley's voice, it's an achievement to force him to forget his words entirely. Then Angel  
knows that clever mind is thinking only of him, of what his cock and his hands and his body are doing to him.

He knows that if he skimmed his hand around and stroked Wesley's rock hard erection, Wesley wouldn't be able to keep from coming. He has been too hard for too long, hard before he even sauntered into Angel's office and closed the door. Still, it seems a bit like cheating from Angel's point of view to let him off so easily. Instead he thrusts into him again and again, seeking just the right angle to make Wesley whimper and clutch the desk so tightly the grain of the wood will be imprinted on his fingers when he finally lets go.

Every little noise that Wesley is making is getting to Angel, though, drowning out the jangling of Angel's unfastened belt and the murmur of voices beyond the closed door and going straight to his cock. Every gasp and groan makes Angel want more of his heat, more of his body. Just holding Wesley's hips isn't enough, and Angel lets go of one of them to skim his palm up Wesley's back, pushing his shirt further out of the way and leaning down to trail biting kisses over his heated skin.

"Angel," Wesley moans, the word so thick with need that it hardly sounds like Wesley's voice. Except that Angel had heard Wesley this way before, many times, and it is one of his favorite sounds in the world.

"Right here, Wes," Angel says, stilling his thrusts when he's deep inside of him and listening to the thundering of Wesley's heart and the harsh gasps of his breath. Wesley's body clenches and relaxes around him, urging him to move again

"Angel, _please_." Wesley pushes back against him, his movements a bit freer with only one of Angel's hands on his hips. "This is torture."

Angel laughs, scraping his teeth over the prominent ridge of Wesley's shoulder blade. "Only stopping would be torture," he replies. He slowly withdraws until he is barely inside of Wesley's body, gritting his teeth to keep from thrusting back into him. "Want me to stop?"

"No!" is Wesley's immediate and vehement reply, shaking his head where it hangs between his braced arms.

"I didn't think so." But when he thrusts back in again, he can't control himself, and he bends over Wesley's body, one arm tight around his chest, and fucks him as hard as they both want it.

The angle is in some ways better, and holding Wesley against him is heavenly, but he isn't really coherent enough to note the details. He's wrapped up in a world of flexing muscles and desperate groans, both of them straining to get closer, working to get Angel even a centimeter deeper. It's not sweet. It's not the stuff of romantic dreams. It's primal and sweaty and full of clothes in inconvenient places and the desk skidding in little jerks across the floor. It's grunting and thrusting and needing needing _needing_ more. It is also absolutely fucking perfect. Fucking perfect fucking, Angel thinks as Wesley twists his head around for a fierce kiss.

"Yes, yes, yes," Angel hears himself murmuring as he nips at Wesley's lips. "Fuck, Wes," he says, feeling the wave of his arousal just begin to crest, a warning flare of intense heat behind his eyes and at the base of his spine.

Wesley moans more loudly, bending his head again and moving with him as the snap of his hips speeds up.

Angel wants to last longer, thinks he should, given how hard he came not that long before, thanks to Wesley's gorgeous and quite talented mouth, but there's no question of stopping his building climax, not when Wesley is shaking and gasping his name, moving into every thrust like it's the best thing in the world.

Angel knows that Wesley thinks so, loves what they do that much, loves _him_ that much, and he drops his hand, wrapping it around Wesley's aching cock. Wesley jerks, his body tensing from head to toe, and Angel comes deep inside of him with a loud groan when Wesley shouts his name and spills his release onto the desk.

They wind up, Angel's not quite sure how, sitting in his big leather chair, the desk itself a few feet further away than it usually is. Wesley is sprawled on his lap, his head on Angel's shoulder and his hair damp against Angel's cheek.

"Thank you," Wesley murmurs, his panting breaths blowing across Angel's bare chest.

"Did you get what you came in here for?" Angel asks.

Wesley shakes his head against Angel's collarbone.

"No?" Angel tips up Wesley's face, somewhat concerned.

"Don't worry," Wesley says, his eyes warm and his lips curved up into a satisfied smile. "I'll fuck you next time."

Angel leans in to kiss the smile from his lips and lingers there for far longer than he had planned. But what do either of them care about plans when they have each other?


End file.
